One after the other,
the birds came.
One spoke of empty rhymes
and blind ballads
another, of blisters
that grew crimson with the setting sun.
One wept of feathers
lost in a molten barrage of scalded dreams
and yet another rested its beak in mire.
One said, "I've flown over rusted, demented kingdoms
and blood-soaked flower beds".
His brother, with claws blunted
from perching long on sunburnt spikes,
remembered a drop of wild nectar.
One stepped out of line,